The Vlog of Dr John H Watson
by Haelia
Summary: At the request of his fans, John starts a vlog about daily life at Baker Street and beyond. Rated T, mainly as a safety net.
1. Introduction

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

6th January

_Hello, everyone! Some of you (a few in particular, and you know who you are) have been asking if I would ever consider doing a vlog. Up to this point, my answer has been no, but then Lestrade gave Sherlock a video camera for Christmas, and of course Sherlock doesn't use it, so... It was just sitting around. I can't guarantee that a vlog of our daily lives will be exciting or even interesting, but I've decided to have a go at it anyway. _

_Until I figure out how to use the editing software, the videos might be a bit rough around the edges, so consider yourselves fairly warned. Click on the link below to play the video._

* * *

[There is the sound of John cursing softly as the camera turns on; it is too far zoomed in and Sherlock's fingers, flying over the keyboard of his laptop, dominate the frame. This continues for some time, to the soundtrack of John talking to himself, until finally he seems to figure it out and zooms out, inch by inch, until all of Sherlock is visible. He is on the sofa, laptop on his knee, intently focussed on whatever he's doing, apparently unaware of John's presence.]

John: Right, then. Ah, hello. Here we are: 221b Baker Street. Sherlock is hard at work on another case, as you can see. And I... should have thought this through a little more clearly, because I've already run out of things to say.

Sherlock [without looking up]: John, don't mumble.

John: I'm not mumbling, Sherlock, I'm narrating.

[It takes a moment for this to sink in, but when it does, Sherlock looks up with a slight frown.]

Sherlock: Narrating what? What are you doing?

John: A vlog.

Sherlock: _Vlog_?

John: It's like a blog, but in videos.

Sherlock: Yes, I know what it is, but why would you attempt such an inane thing?

[John sighs audibly, but his voice retains its cheerfulness.]

John: Because, Sherlock, a good number of your readers – our readers – were asking us to, and I thought it might be fun to try. Besides, people like to see that you're human. This is a good way to show them.

[Sherlock is clearly losing interest, his gaze now meandering back and forth between John and the laptop screen.]

Sherlock: Fun.

John: Mm?

Sherlock: You said fun.

John: Yes.

[There is a rough fumbling noise and then the camera is turned toward John, but only half his face is visible. He is smiling sarcastically.]

John: See? I told you he's a barrel of laughs. Let's see what's going on... in here...

[More fumbling noises and then the camera is focussed ahead again, shaking a little as John moves. He turns away from Sherlock, who is now once again absorbed in whatever he's working on. The kitchen suddenly fills the frame as John spins away from the sitting room, pointing the lens into several experiments that seem to be running themselves on the dining table. Amongst the various fluorescently coloured chemicals is an untouched plate of eggs and bacon.]

John: Um, so this is an experiment. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that the kitchen table is usually covered in chemistry – well, this is what I mean. And, ah, that's Sherlock's breakfast next to...

[The camera zooms in on the label of a dubious-looking jar.]

John: Sulfuric acid. Jesus Christ – Sher_lock_!

Sherlock [from the other room, muffled]: What?

John: Sulfuric acid, really?

[The focus shifts to the threshold of the kitchen, through which we can just barely see Sherlock's feet propped up on the coffee table. The rest of him is obscured by the threshold itself.]

Sherlock: It's an _experiment_, John. I have to know how it reacts with –

John: Bacon and eggs?

Sherlock: What? No.

John: It's next to your _breakfast_.

Sherlock: Irrelevant. John, really, you know...

[John takes an audible breath.]

Sherlock and John in unison: I don't eat when I'm on a case.

[There is a huff from the other room, and the camera's focus returns to the kitchen table, giving us a good look at the various beakers and vials and petri dishes and series of tubing cluttering the surface. Occasionally we can see John's hand reaching out to tighten a lid or check the cap of a container or push something a little further from the edge of the table.]

John: Honestly, I'm not even sure if this is legal... Oh well. Let's see...

[John comes to the fridge, stops, and opens it. There is no milk in it, but there is a covered dish. John lifts the cover: chicken casserole. He hums in the back of his throat, replaces the cover, and pulls out of the fridge before shutting the door. Then he travels back to the sitting room, picking his way around the clutter. The camera occasionally points downward, showing John's bare feet as he tries not to step on paperwork or books or parts of experiments. When he reaches the sitting room, his gait slows and he creeps toward the couch in a roundabout way, as though he's trying to sneak up on Sherlock. He comes up behind him, camera focussing on the laptop screen, and zooms in a bit. When Sherlock becomes aware of his presence, he quickly navigates away from a suspiciously blue and white web page.]

John [clearly trying not to laugh]: Was that Facebook?

Sherlock: Research.

[With surprising speed and dexterity, John's arm shoots out over Sherlock's shoulder and tabs over to the previous webpage. It is, indeed, Facebook.]

John: You have a Facebook?

Sherlock: No!

[The camera zooms in.]

John [through laughter]: It's a fan page. For your hair!

[For a few moments, Sherlock doesn't move, but the tips of his ears are turning pink, and after a tense silence he suddenly spills the laptop onto the sofa and turns to lunge at John, reaching out to snatch the camera away.]

John [still giggling]: Sherlock – augh, Sherlock, don't!

[The last thing we hear is Sherlock growling and John laughing heartily, and then the screen goes black.]


	2. Tour of 221b

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

15th January

_After the last vlog post, someone requested a tour of 221b Baker Street. I actually filmed this ages ago, but never had time to post it. And Sherlock, if you happen to read this – no, I didn't touch anything. That is to say, I didn't tidy up your incredibly oppressive mess before filming this. To the rest of you, sorry. _

* * *

[The scene opens on John's face, only halfway in the frame as last time. Behind him is the stairway leading to the outer door; he is standing just outside the flat he shares with Sherlock. He speaks in a slightly hushed voice, obviously trying to avoid being heard by someone.]

John: Hello again. So, this is the tour of the flat. Ahm, I knew Sherlock wouldn't be too keen on the idea, so I decided to wait until he wasn't around before I shot it. Turns out, he doesn't go out much without me. Right now, though, he's fallen asleep – you probably read, we solved the train case this morning – so that's why I'm being quiet. Right, here we go then.

[The camera gets flipped round and focusses on the door. John points the lens to where the embossed _221b_ is nailed to the rough surface of the door, then the focus shifts downward to where John is turning the knob. We are transported through to the flat, and the door closes quietly behind John.]

John: Okay. This is the entryway. If you can call it that. Really it's just the space beside the door. Not much to look at. There's the coat-rack, and Sherlock's famous coat. There's my coat, too, if anyone's interested. Scarves, never-used umbrella.

[John turns toward the wall.]

John: That painting there is one that Sherlock's had since I met him. If you look here, bottom right corner, you can see a tiny hole? I don't know if you can see that... Anyway, the hole is from Sherlock shooting an arrow at it. Well, not _at_ it. He was aiming for a... criminal. Yeah.

[The camera swings round, the frame opening upon the sitting room as a whole. A vaguely Sherlock-shaped figure is sprawled across the sofa, covered over with a blanket – obviously John's doing – and a thin hand sticks out from the hem of the quilt, nearly dragging on the floor. Sherlock's curly hair is visible at one end of the sofa, as well as his closed eyes and the tip of his nose; the rest is obscured by the blanket.]

John: Yeah, see what I mean? Hope we don't wake him up. Okay, so there's the sofa, the fireplace, the chairs, the telly. Can you see the skull on the mantel?

[Zoom in on the skull. The focus remains here for a moment, then slowly slides to the right, picking over details of the room: the chess set on the side table, a teacup sitting half-finished on the bookshelf beside an open copy of _Great Expectations_, the music stand. The camera lingers here for a moment, zooming in a little further as John takes a step forward. The top of the sheet music is visible onscreen: _Il Grosso Mogul, Violin Concerto in D, Antonio Vivaldi_. Then the camera zooms out and continues its pan-right. Suddenly Sherlock's blanketed form is filling the frame again, and John continues to pan and pan and pan until finally we come to Sherlock's curly head. His eyes are open. John freezes, but Sherlock doesn't say anything, only blinking languidly at him, perhaps curious what he's doing or not fully awake yet. After a few moments' hesitation, John continues, now zooming all the way out and panning left and upward to focus on the smiley face spray-painted onto the wallpaper.]

John [now in an even quieter voice, just above a whisper]: See the bullet holes? I wasn't kidding. He shoots the wall.

[The camera eventually comes full circle to rest on the door, and then John takes a sidestep to the right. The sliding door to the kitchen is visible, half open.]

John: Hmm, not sure if we should even go in there. Let's just have a peek.

[The camera shakes a bit, _Blair Witch_ style, as John walks, picking around the clutter as usual. He sticks the camera just inside the threshold and pans slowly over the room. Unsurprisingly, the chemistry set is still dominating the dining table. And there are several beakers and containers – both empty and not – occupying the shelving above the microwave.]

John: Yeah. Kitchen. Not that you can really call it that anymore. There isn't much cooking going on here. Let's call it the... lab. That seems a bit more accurate. And what's that orange stuff spilt on the worktop, you ask? Not a clue. Not sure we want to know. Moving on? Yes.

[John carries the camera at chest-height as he moves out of the kitchen, through the sitting room, and up the staircase. Shockingly, the stairs are immaculate – not a single item on them, so there is no risk of tripping over an experiment. John climbs the stairs two at a time and arrives at a landing. It is sparsely decorated – a mirror on the wall (similar to the one above the mantel downstairs), a plant on a pedestal. There is a syringe sticking out of the plant's soil, and the plant itself is looking a bit bluish. John steps through to the first bedroom.]

John: Sherlock's room. Barely used. But fascinating all the same. Is that a biohazard disposal bin? Why yes, yes it is; and people of London, you're welcome.

[The bin fills the screen for a moment before John zooms out and takes a nice, long shot of the entire room. Sherlock's bed is covered in a very fine-looking duvet, but it is barely visible beneath the piles and piles of books – everything from medical text to instruction manuals to epic poems. On the top of a stack is a violin case, which stands open and empty, its violet velvet interior clearly visible. The dresser is covered in file folders. Only the side tables on either side of the bed stand unencumbered, except for a set of scalpels in a case.]

John: Now mine.

[He turns round, crosses the hall, and comes to a stop in a room that is the polar opposite of Sherlock's. It is simple and tidy. The bed is covered by a simple blue quilt which is tucked round the edges with military precision and order. On the single side table is an alarm clock, which reads 13:22. Next to that is a book, but its jacket has been stripped from it and so the title is not visible. The closet is closed, and the dresser is bare aside from John's phone charging on top of it. A black leather bag stands at the ready beside the dresser, next to John's shoes.]

John: Note the difference? Okay, last room...

[He turns out of the room, heads down the hall, and stops outside of a closed door. He reaches out and opens it, stepping through to a very neat bathroom.]

John: Experiments are off-limits in here, as you can see. No body parts. No toxic substances. Just soap.

[Indeed, the bath's shelving is populated with bubble bath, John's generic soap and shampoo, and Sherlock's overly expensive counterparts.]

John: Ah, yes. The matter of Sherlock's shampoo. See that black bottle there? With what he pays for that one bottle, I could buy five of mine. Mrs. Hudson wonders why we struggle so much with the rent sometimes – well, there's the answer.

[The camera pans in a full circle around the room – fluffy blue towels, cabinet, toilet, basket of potpourri, sink, mirror. John pauses on the mirror, zooms out to include the full image of his own reflection. Holding the camera still, he leans out to the side to be visible, and waves at the mirror.]

John: Guess that's it, then. Hope it was entertaining, and not too scary. See you next time, then!

[John waves once more and the screen goes black.]


	3. Lestrade

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

17th January

[Open on a bustling office scene. The frame is unsteady; John is walking quickly. Sherlock is beside him, visible in brief flashes as they walk. John shifts the camera from one hand to the other and then brings it up to his eye level, pointing it at Sherlock, who is speaking at a rapid-fire pace that is barely comprehensible. Someone nearly slams into John and he turns the camera's focus ahead again, and it becomes clear that they are walking through the bullpin at Scotland Yard. Lestrade's office is looming ahead of them.]

Sherlock: So, red rain boots, rusty trowel, sister in America, French bulldog: obviously the killer.

John: Obviously.

Lestrade: What's all this, then?

[The duo has entered Lestrade's office, and Lestrade is standing behind the desk with his hands on his hips – or rather, one hand, because the other is gesturing at the camera in John's hand.]

Sherlock [with false glee]: John's started a _vlog_.

Lestrade: A what?

John: It's like a blog, but in videos.

Lestrade: Oh. You know, you're technically not supposed to film in here. Are you putting this up on the internet?

Sherlock [exasperated]: Oh, god...

John: Not if you ask me not to.

Lestrade: I guess I don't care, just don't... film anything classified?

John: Okay.

[The camera pans around the room, pausing for a moment on Greg's desk, where a bunch of bagged evidence clutters the surface.]

Lestrade: Yeah, that's classified.

John: Oh -

[The screen goes black.]

* * *

[When the camera comes to life again, it is very still, obviously sitting on a surface of some sort. Lestrade's upper half dominates the frame, but his computer is just visible next to him. The shot seems to be from his desk, as his lower half is cut off by its shiny surface. His torso and face are clearly visible, but the top part of his hair is cut off by the top edge of the frame. John's skills as a cinematographer are far from excellent.]

Lestrade: What should I say?

John: Just say hello, tell them who you are.

[Lestrade waves.]

Lestrade: Uh, hello. I'm Detective-Inspector Lestrade. Uhm...

John: What's your favourite colour?

Lestrade: What? Yellow. Why?

John: Because it's not classified.

[Lestrade chuckles.]

John: Yellow. That's odd. Why yellow?

Lestrade: It's cheerful.

[He grins.]

John: Alright, that makes sense. Okay, what do you do with your time off?

Lestrade: What time off?

John: Holidays?

Lestrade [shrugging]: I like to travel a bit.

John: Where's your favourite place to go?

Lestrade: Italy. The food's good and the people are pretty nice, if you know where to go.

John: Ah, very nice. Very good. When was the last time you've been?

Lestrade: Ah... oh, that's a hard one. Mm, fifteen years ago, probably.

John: Yikes.

Lestrade: Like I said: what time off?

John: Gotcha. Okay, what is your favourite food?

Lestrade: Curry. Especially cheap takeaway curry that makes you inevitably sick the next morning.

[Both laugh.]

John: Can't say I'm a fan. Um... hm, let's see... How did you meet Sherlock?

Lestrade: That's sort of a long story. What kind of interview is this, anyway?

[John does not answer, but Lestrade's reaction seems to indicate that the doctor is smiling, because he starts to do the same. We are only left to imagine that John is wearing a mischievous grin.]

Lestrade: Well, it was six years ago, or thereabouts. Come to think of it, though, I'm not sure he'd want me telling this story.

Sherlock: Tell it.

[His voice comes from offscreen; Lestrade glances up, surprised to see him. There is the sound of shuffling paper from somewhere offscreen but close to the camera's microphone.]

Sherlock: I don't mind.

Lestrade [shrugging]: Alright then. Sherlock and I met the first time I arrested him.

John: Are any of us surprised?

Sherlock: Just to clarify – the charges were for possession. I am not dangerous. Well...

Lestrade: At some point during that whole ordeal, he stole one of my cold case files. To this day, I don't know how he did it.

[Lestrade looks expectantly off-camera. Sherlock's snort is just barely audible.]

Sherlock: And you still won't.

Lestrade: Anyway, he solved the damn thing. Came back the next day and slammed the file down on my desk, along with a lovely little note saying who my killer was and how to find him. Two more times he did this, and then I started calling him for active cases.

[There are a few shuffling and clicking noises as John picks up the camera and swings the focus toward his flatmate. Sherlock is standing beside the desk, flipping through a case file. There is a rare smile teasing the corner of his mouth. Then, Lestrade's door bursts open suddenly and John turns instinctively toward the sound. The figure of Sally Donovan is in the doorway.]

Donovan: Sir, we've –

[The screen goes black.]


	4. Kip

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

18th January

[The steadiness with which the camera is handled is a clear indication that it is not John shooting. Since the scene filling the frame is a dimly-lit 221b, one can only assume that Sherlock has gotten hold of the device. His gait is smooth and fluid, the camera barely jostling with each catlike step. He is creeping up to the couch, where the wan light thrown off by the telly is illuminating the figure of John Watson, who is asleep on the sofa. Sherlock steps very close, all the way up next to the sofa, and lowers himself down onto the floor beside. With the camera so close to John's face, we are able to see the thin golden fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks, and the slight accumulation of stubble that has grown on his jaw in the last twenty-four hours. His mouth is closed, and he takes deep, regular breaths through his nose. There is a nearly-indetectable frown between his brows. After a few moments of this close inspection, Sherlock shifts, and places the camera on the coffee table. We are able to see him uncurl from his sitting position on the floor. He strides offscreen, and we can hear a door open somewhere, then close with a gentle click. Sherlock reappears and spreads a bright orange blanket over his flatmate's sleeping form. John stirs, then his eyes flicker open and his gaze moves toward Sherlock.]

John: Fell asleep.

[The observation is uttered in a drowsy voice, and John curls himself tighter beneath the blanket so that his toes disappear beneath the hem.]

Sherlock [now offscreen]: Shh. It's late.

[The soft strains of music begin; Sherlock is playing the violin beside the music stand at the window. The corner of John's mouth twitches and he glances toward the telly or the clock, but notices the red standby light of the camera. Frowning in confusion, he reaches out and turns the camera off.]


	5. Ouch!

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

22nd January

_Originally this video was supposed to be a thank you, but as you will see it didn't get that far. So, I will say it here: Thank you, to all the readers, viewers, and fans who are following this blog. I appreciate it, and so does Sherlock, even if he doesn't show it. _

_I should warn you that the video below might be a little gruesome to someone with a weak stomach, so watch at your own risk._

* * *

[Open on the sitting room of 221b, and half of John's face – which, at this point, is all we can really ever expect to see. The camera has been set down on something, and we can see the sitting room behind John. He is standing, but bent over so that he can address the camera properly. He's wearing a smile.]

John: Hi! I just wanted to quickly sit down and give a proper thank you to everyone who's been –

[He is abruptly interrupted as the door suddenly snaps open and delivers a stumbling Sherlock, apparently worse for wear. John seems to forget about the camera entirely as he straightens up and turns toward his flatmate.]

John: …What's happened to you?

Sherlock: Ran into a bit of trouble...

[Sherlock is gingerly shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack, looking very unsteady on his feet. John is approaching him, and speeds up considerably as Sherlock's knees start to give. He reaches him before he falls, and braces him up with an arm round his waist.]

John: What sort of 'trouble'?

Sherlock: Ice, mainly.

John: Is that blood?

Sherlock: Probably.

[John guides Sherlock to the sofa without a second glance at the camera, and clicks on a lamp nearby. He sucks in his breath as he leans in close to Sherlock's face, inspecting a nasty cut on the side of his head. It stretches from his temple to just above his ear. His dark curls are matted with blood, and there is a swath of it down the side of his face and neck.]

John: Did you hurt anything else on your way down?

Sherlock: The milk.

John: What?

[Groggily, Sherlock lifts a hand and flaps it toward the coat-rack. John turns and finally notices the shopping bag on the floor nearby. Something inside appears to be leaking slowly. He freezes for a moment, apparently in shock that Sherlock picked up the milk at all. Then he snaps out of it, shaking his head, and goes to the kitchen for a towel.]

John: Anything else?

Sherlock: Mm?

John: Anything else hurt?

Sherlock: Think I might have done something to my back. Banged my elbow. Nothing else bleeding, at least.

[John returns with the towel and a first-aid kit and goes back over to the sofa, kneeling on the floor beside Sherlock. He presses the towel to the wound and covers Sherlock's eyes one by one with the other hand.]

John: Do you feel dizzy? Sick?

Sherlock: No. Not really.

John: Not really or no?

Sherlock: No.

John: Sleepy?

Sherlock: A bit.

John: Don't go to sleep.

[Slowly, John peels the towel away from the wound and gives it another close inspection. He frowns in concern and shakes his head a little.]

John: It's not too bad. You could do with a couple stitches, though.

Sherlock: I'm not going to A&E.

John [sighing]: No, I didn't expect you would. I'll tape it up and see if the bleeding stops soon, but if it doesn't, then we _are_ going to hospital.

[Sherlock frowns and makes a vague noise in his throat.]

John: Oh, don't do that. I'll take you to the surgery and do it myself if you're going to be a child about it, but I am never, ever performing surgery in the living room again.

[A slow smile cracks the grim line of Sherlock's mouth.]

Sherlock: What, that wasn't your idea of fun?

[John glares at him and begins cleaning the wound with antiseptic. It runs in red-tinged rivulets down the side of Sherlock's face, and he groans when John probes the wound with his fingers, checking for debris. John makes an indistinct soothing sound and continues his work, cleaning and mopping up the wound before placing a few butterfly closures over it and covering them with gauze and tape.]

John: There. Now you won't bleed to death, probably. Show me the rest.

[Sherlock obediently sits forward, albeit with some effort, and unbuttons his shirt, peeling it away from his skin where the antiseptic and blood have made it stick to him. John helps him out of it, and scoots up onto the couch to take a look, his fingers running over Sherlock's spine and ribcage.]

John: Looks like you popped a rib.

Sherlock: Ow.

John: Sorry. This'll hurt too.

[John places the flat of his palm against Sherlock's back, just left of his spine, and gives one good, hard push. Something snaps wetly, loud enough for the camera's microphone to pick up. Sherlock tenses, but doesn't make a sound.]

John: All better. Be sore for a bit, though.

[He pats Sherlock's shoulder, which prompts the detective to relax against the back of the couch again. John moves to sit across from him on the coffee table.]

John: You okay?

Sherlock: Yeah.

John: Thanks for picking up the milk.

Sherlock: Anytime.

[They both glance toward the camera.]

Sherlock: That's on.

John: Yeah.

[John stands, stretches, and ambles over. His mouth a thin line, he reaches out a hand to cut the power.]


	6. On Books

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

24th January

[John's right eye is very close to the lens. It seems like he is just fiddling around with the camera, perhaps messing with the settings or trying to figure out the right angle to get all of his face in the frame. He isn't intentionally shooting anything for the vlog, just trying to figure the device out, but that all changes when Sherlock enters the room, holding out something thin and rectangular and flat in his right hand.]

Sherlock: John, what is this?

[John glances at Sherlock, recognises the item immediately, and turns back to the camera, which is now resting comfortably on an eye-level surface. He sighs pointedly, as if hoping beyond hope that we understand his pain, and swivels his chair to face his flatmate.]

John: It's an e-reader, Sherlock. I'm surprised you didn't know.

Sherlock: An e-reader, _really._ John. I'm apalled.

John: What?

Sherlock: Shocked and appalled!

[Sherlock places the e-reader in John's hands and looms over him with his arms crossed.]

John: What, why? This is cutting edge, I thought you of all people would be able to appreciate that!

Sherlock: I had to teach you how to download applications to your smartphone – since when are you on the cutting edge of technology?

[John turns the little tablet over and over in his hands, brings the screen to life, flicks through a couple of the menus, taps a book title and watches fondly as it fills the screen at the exact spot he left off.]

John: I like it. It's easy to use, and small enough to fit in a bag with my laptop. And I can keep a lot of books on it. I mean, _a lot_ of books.

Sherlock: I suppose you've even used it at work, as a quick-reference for various medical texts.

John: I have, actually. It's quite a handy little device. Why are you appalled?

Sherlock: Because _books_, John!

John: ...Yes?

Sherlock [slightly exasperated]: Books are like... they are like art. Would you image-search the _Mona Lisa_ if you wanted to experience it? No, you wouldn't! You would go to the Louvre and see it for yourself, so that you could inspect the brush strokes and see its true dimensions. Or, suppose you had a passion for fishing! Would you watch a video of a fisherman and be satisfied with it? No – you'd want to go to the nearest body of water and wade into the shallows, casting your line with the wind in your hair and the water rushing around you. It's the _experience_, John, not just the image.

John: But that's the beauty of literature. It's an experience all wrapped up in words, you don't need to have the actual book in hand. You can have a copy of a copy of a copy and it's still the same.

Sherlock: No. No, not at all.

[Sherlock spins around, searching for something. Suddenly he crosses to the bookshelf and his fingers fly over the spines of the books, searching, searching... At last, on the third shelf down, he pulls out a lovingly worn tome and hands it to John. It is _Great Expectations_, and he has seen John read it more than once in the time they have known each other. John looks at the camera, frowning, before his eyes snap back to Sherlock, who has returned to his side and is placing the book in John's hands.]

Sherlock: Take it. Go on. What does it feel like?

John: Um, a book?

Sherlock: Describe it.

John: Eh, it's rather thick, and a bit heavy, and the cover's very worn. There's a part that's all smooth from where I've held it before. The... title on the front is embossed, so I can feel it as I'm holding it.

[Sherlock flips the book open in John's hands and thumbs through the pages, fanning them. John instinctively takes a breath as the pages fly by.]

Sherlock: There! It even has a smell, you know it. It has weight, it has texture, it has a familiar appearance. Do you have this book on your e-reader?

John: Yes.

Sherlock: Open it.

[Sherlock relieves John of the book, setting it on the table and waiting patiently while John opens the application on his tablet.]

John: Okay.

Sherlock: Go on, flip through a few pages.

[John's finger slides across the screen a few times, thumbing through a few random pages. Sherlock waits patiently.]

John: What am I doing, here?

Sherlock: Did you get the same feeling?

[A pause.]

John: What do you...

Sherlock: You know what I mean! Did you get the same feeling? You've been reading that book for years, John. Probably since you were a child. No – don't tell me I'm right, I know I am. You still read it to this day, as a grown man – not because it is some genius literary gem (believe me, Dickens was far more tedious than he was genius, legendary though his work is), but because it's nostalgic. You _feel_ something when you read that book. That _book_.

[There is silence for a few moments as John absorbs these words. He blinks up at Sherlock a few times before finding his voice.]

John: ...Yes, I suppose you are right. I never knew you felt so passionately about it.

[Sherlock gives John a self-satisfied smirk and goes back to the bookshelf. He plucks another title off the shelf and disappears offscreen. John turns back to the camera with an odd smile on his face, and his hand obscures the lens as he turns it off.]


	7. A Gift

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

_He means thanks, Mycroft. Honestly._

* * *

29th January

[There are a lot of shuffling noises, and the camera is being hefted about in a careless or hasty fashion, which causes the sitting room of 221b to blur across the screen, nearly unrecognisable except for the unmistakable wallpaper with its yellow smiley face. When finally the image settles, the central focus is upon a large cardboard box on the coffee table. Sherlock is standing over it, considering it carefully with one arm folded across his chest and the other hand cupping his chin. He is still in his pyjamas, with his dressing gown over top, and his hair is mussed; the impression given is that he has just rolled out of bed. His feet are bare, and his toes tap the floor in an irritated rhythm.]

John: Well, what is it?

[He shifts the camera to his dominant hand, jostling the frame a bit. Sherlock shrugs.]

Sherlock: It's a parcel.

John: From who?

Sherlock: Mycroft.

John: You know that? There's no return address...

Sherlock: Precisely.

[A pause. Sherlock points to the addressee label.]

Sherlock: Nobody but Mycroft would put my middle initial in the addressee line.

John: Well, then... aren't you going to open it?

[Sherlock shrugs.]

John: Well, then... may I open it?

[Sherlock nods and sits down on the couch, but he is far from disinterested. He's sitting forward on the cushions, elbows braced on knees, hands clasped between. His toes continue their anxious dance. John sets the camera down on something that totters for a moment before it settles. He walks over – also in his pyjamas, we now observe, though he is wearing a cabled jumper over top – and takes a pocket knife from the mantelpiece. He carefully slits the tape holding the box closed and prises open the flaps. He digs through some packing material and extracts an envelope. He holds it up for Sherlock's approval, and Sherlock only nods. John opens the envelope and pulls out a card with no words on the outside – only a generic artist's render of an orchid. He opens it and reads aloud.]

John: 'Happy belated, little brother. I hope this will be of some use to you.' What's he mean, 'happy belated'? Belated what?

Sherlock: Christmas, I suppose.

[John shakes his head adamantly, turning the card over as though it might reveal another clue as to the occasion.]

John: No, he sent us Christmas gifts on Christmas. Remember? Big red box.

[Sherlock is silent, and seems to be carefully regarding something on the leg of the coffee table. John's face goes through several changes: confusion, consternation, thoughtfulness, then shock. He huffs a laugh.]

John: Sherlock – when is your birthday?

Sherlock: Irrelevant. What is in the box?

John: Is this a birthday gift? I didn't even –

Sherlock: We've both had birthdays before this one, and never made a fuss.

John: Well, you got me that jumper the year before last. And then probably deleted the information to make room for –

Sherlock: July seventh.

[Silence.]

Sherlock: I didn't delete it.

John: Well, then tell me yours. That's obviously what this parcel is about.

Sherlock: January sixth. I don't usually mark its passing.

[John considers Sherlock for a long moment, apparently perplexed as to why this has not come up in the past. Like as not, it did, but was quickly brushed off for more important things – like The Work. Then the moment passes, and John smiles warmly. Sherlock returns it with the barest hint of a smirk, and John goes to work pawing through the packing material.]

John: Well, let's see what dear big brother has sent, then. You know, I don't remember him sending you anything the last couple of years.

[Sherlock shakes his head pensively.]

Sherlock: We haven't celebrated birthdays since we were children.

John: That doesn't surprise me. Didn't your mother object, though?

Sherlock: I suppose she did, but it is difficult to argue with children who talk like adults and can list the many different ways that birthdays are irrelevant and unworthy of celebration or notice.

[John pauses, his hands hovering somewhere inside the box. His expression is unreadable as he stares into the middle distance, but something about what Sherlock has just said is clearly not sitting quite well with him.]

Sherlock: What's in the box?

[Shaking himself from his thoughts, John pulls another, smaller box from the bottom of the parcel He lifts it out carefully as Sherlock swipes away the large one to make room on the table. John sets the smaller box down and the two of them consider it a moment before John tears the paper off.]

John: It's a microscope.

Sherlock: It's _the_ microscope.

[John looks up at Sherlock, who has adopted a dreamy expression: eyes glazed over, features placid, movements fluid. He seems almost to float as he nears the table, scooping up the box and reading the back. Clearly he is impressed with the microscope. Several moments pass in reverent quiet, John watching as Sherlock softly rattles of the specs of the machine. He makes the occasional generic 'I'm impressed' noise when Sherlock turns toward him to exclaim about some feature or another. Shortly, Sherlock's dreamlike delight seems to fade and he scowls, clutching the unopened microscope tightly.]

Sherlock: He wants something from me.

John: Mycroft?

Sherlock: It's the only reason he'd send me a gift now, when we haven't so much as marked the date in decades.

John: Does that mean you're going to send it back?

Sherlock [alarmed]: Of course not! Watch out, John.

[Sherlock flops down onto the couch and, with one sweep of a long arm, clears the coffee table, preparing to put the new microscope together and try it out right away. John has moved onto the sofa to avoid the falling debris, and seems thoughtful for several minutes as Sherlock removes and unwraps components one by one.]

John: You know, it could be he just wanted to give you a nice gift for your birthday. Don't you think it's a possibility?

[Sherlock stops to think about this, and it isn't clear whether he's pretending or genuinely giving it some thought. He seems to battle with himself for some time, fidgeting with the bubble wrap surrounding one of the eyepieces.]

Sherlock: Perhaps...

[Both men lapse into silence. Eventually Sherlock returns his attention to the assembly of the microscope, and the scene fades to black on his pensive expression and John's gentle smile.]


	8. The Other Vlogger

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

_Apparently Sherlock occasionally shoots videos and uploads them to my blog? That's happening now._

_SH: It's already happened before..._

* * *

30th January

[Baker Street is glorious and shining beneath a blanket of freshly fallen snow. The shot we are looking at is being taken through one of the tall front windows at 221b. The corner of Sherlock's music stand is visible in the right-hand side of the frame. Snow falls lazily past the windowpane. John's voice floats to us from somewhere offscreen; Sherlock is shooting.]

John: Whatcha doing?

Sherlock: Filming.

John: No case, then?

Sherlock: Meeting with a private client this afternoon.

[Slowly, the focus swings inward. We see the cluttered desk where Sherlock's new microscope sits, the pile of newspapers neatly tied on the floor, the skull on the mantel, and John folded into an armchair with his e-reader.]

Sherlock: What are you reading?

John: Um – it's called _Eleven Twenty-Two_. It's about the JFK assassination.

Sherlock: The what?

John: Kennedy. President in America in 1963. He was shot in the head? Did you delete that?

Sherlock: Most likely.

John: Well, they never actually figured out who fired the bullet that killed Kennedy. There are all sorts of conspiracies.

Sherlock: Mm.

[Up to this point, John has not taken his eyes off his e-reader except in very brief glances in his friend's direction. He is reading attentively now. Sherlock zooms in on John's face, and we can see the frown that he's wearing as he reads. His eyes are intense with concentration.]

Sherlock: John?

John: Mm?

Sherlock: May I have your skull, if you happen to die before I do?

[John looks up sharply.]

John: _What_?

[The screen suddenly goes black.]

* * *

_There is more to that conversation (the battery ran out), but I've apparently promised my skull to Sherlock? I'm not sure how that happened, but he insists that's how the above conversation ended. I don't know. I need to sleep. Goodnight._


	9. Britain's Got Talent?

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

3rd February

[The scene opens on commotion. There are lots of voices, and the sounds of clinking glasses, and laughter. Someone is singing in a deep, silky baritone. As the camera man struggles to bring the lens into focus amidst all the jostling and laughter, a second voice joins the first – this one _slightly_ higher but several times more pleasant to listen to. John's voice is audible as the camera focuses on a beer bottle sitting on the lacquered surface of a bar, and we seem to be listening to his side of a conversation that is otherwise drowned out by the noise of the pub.]

John: No, I'm trying to get it to come on. The damn thing won't focus!

[John giggles, and then the focus swings as he lifts the camera from the bar.]

John: Ah-ha, got it. No, I've got it, I've got it!

[John giggles some more, and tilts the camera upward. Startlingly enough, we are now looking at Sherlock and Lestrade, seated on the bar. Lestrade has slung an arm round Sherlock's shoulders, and the two of them are singing a very sloppy rendition of "O Danny Boy". Sherlock is pretty off-key. Lestrade is spot-on, despite his obvious inebriation. Some of the other patrons of the pub are singing along, half of them getting the words wrong, but it is clear that the focus of most of the crowd is upon the two men seated on top of the bar. Even the barkeep is laughing as he goes about his business.]

John: Good lord.

Dimmock: Why "O Danny Boy"?

John [laughing]: Hell if I know.

Sherlock and Lestrade [singing]: And I shall sleep in peace, until you come to me!

[Uproarious laughter. The scene cuts.]

* * *

**Comments**

S Holmes 07:29AM  
John, remove this immediately.

John Watson 07:34AM  
It's funny. Why would I take it down? People like this stuff. If you're so unhappy about it, you take it down.

S Holmes 07:35AM  
Can't log in from my phone. On the tube. Take it down.

Harry W 07:35AM  
LOLOLOL

Saldon 07:42AM  
I've already downloaded a copy, no point taking it down. Lestrade's seen it twice. I think it's going viral...

S_Holmes 07:43AM  
JOHN.

John Watson 07:45AM  
Make me.


	10. Cold Case

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

5th February

[Open on a blanket-covered lump on the sofa. At one end, dark curly hair is just visible beneath the hem of the quilt.]

John [narrating]: So Sherlock's sick.

[The lump on the sofa quivers.]

Sherlock [muffled by blanket]: Am not.

John: He has a fever, and the sniffles, and a nasty cough.

[Sherlock coughs.]

Sherlock: No, I don't.

John: Would you care to illuminate the reasons behind this sudden illness?

Sherlock: No.

[The camera swings round to John's face, which is wearing an expression of mild annoyance, perhaps mixed with slight amusement.]

John: Sherlock took a swim in the Thames last night. Again. How, you ask? Oh, he didn't fall in, this time. He jumped. _Jumped_ into the Thames. In February.

[Sherlock coughs mightily, and John cringes. The focus turns to Sherlock, and we can see that he is poking part of his face out from the blanket – just two watery eyes. The highlight of pink on his cheeks is just visible beneath.]

Sherlock [defiantly]: You don't catch cold from _being_ cold, John. As a medical professional, you should know that. Really, the quality of your education comes into question...

John [with exaggerated patience]: You're right, Sherlock. But submerging yourself in cold, filthy water can expose you to a wealth of viruses and bacteria, which _can _and _did_ make you sick.

[Sherlock sighs and shuts his eyes. The scene closes, and reopens a moment later to a very different 221b: it is dark outside, and a fire has been lit in the grate. Hours have passed since the first sequence. Sherlock is sprawled belly-up on the sofa, clad in too-big flannelette pyjamas, his legs entangled with the quilt. His head is thrown back, both arms splayed on the throw pillow to either side of his relaxed face – much like a baby sleeps. He breathes slowly and quietly through his mouth, and his eyes twitch occasionally beneath the lids. John speaks in a whisper to avoid waking him, tightening the frame on the detective's face. He must be sitting on the coffee table adjacent to the sofa, to get this angle.]

John: In his defence, there was a murder weapon at the bottom of the Thames. All things considered... I can see why he did it. But don't tell him that. It was still bloody daft of him, anyway...

[Pause as Sherlock sighs and turns his head in his sleep. John chuckles softly.]

John: Benylin night-time is a wonderful thing...


	11. Alleycat

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

9th February

[Alleyway. It is a cloudy afternoon. The snow has melted, leaving the ground damp and grey. The alleyway appears empty, and John tightens the frame on a rubbish bin in the middle of the back street. After a moment, the bin totters slightly. A small black cat emerges from behind it, licking her lips. She stops just beyond the bin and looks at the camera, big yellow eyes staring back. The frame trembles slightly as John chuckles. From offscreen, Sherlock huffs.]

Sherlock: What are you doing?

John: There's a cat.

[The cat glances down the alleyway and then back at the camera. John clucks his tongue to get her attention, and she flicks her ears warily. After a moment's apparent consideration, she turns and heads down the alleyway, away from us. Her fluffy black tail flicks up into the air as she trots away. Zoom in on the cat as she vaults a small fence, hops up onto some bins, and springs onto a windowsill. She's gone a few seconds later.]

Sherlock: It's gone.

John: Yeah.

Sherlock: Mrs. Hudson said no animals...

[The focus swings round to Sherlock, who is standing uncomfortably close, forcing John to back up in order to get his face in the frame.]

John: Well, I wasn't going to take it home with us.

Sherlock [dubiously]: Mm.

[John snorts audibly, transferring the camera from one hand to the other.]

John: You're just annoyed I'm filming something other than you.

[Sherlock shrugs and starts to walk away. A still moment passes, and then John breaks into a brisk walk to catch up. He huffs a laugh.]

John: You are, aren't you!

[End scene.]


	12. Mrs Hudson Knows Best

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

10th February

[Open on Baker Street. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are standing, in profile to the camera, on opposite sides of the dining table, which is relatively clean and free of chemistry. Between them on the table is a casserole dish filled with something cheesy and delicious-looking. It's steaming steadily. Mrs. Hudson has plates in one hand and a serving spoon in the other, and she looks quite cross as she glares up at Sherlock. For his part, the consulting detective has his arms crossed, quietly defiant, eyebrows lifted slightly as if he's waiting for the landlady to dole out some sort of punishment for whatever he's just said. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson points the spoon at Sherlock, nearly stabbing him between the eyes with it. He does not reel back, but he does look slightly surprised.]

Mrs. Hudson: You will, because I said you will.

Sherlock: Don't be ridiculous.

[Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in a 'oh-we'll-just-see-about-that' manner and begins dishing out the pasta casserole onto plates. Sherlock's posture curves slightly, and he drops his hands to the sides, looking pleadingly toward the camera.]

Sherlock [sharply]: John, tell her.

John [offscreen]: I'm afraid I'm on her side this time, Sherlock. She has a point, you know.

Mrs. Hudson: Thank you, dear.

[Sherlock crosses his arms again, watching Mrs. Hudson haughtily as she plates the casserole. He perks up a bit when she places dinner rolls on the plates as well, then even more as she checks on dessert, which is chilling in the refrigerator. In a few moments, the table is laid – silverware, glasses, three steaming plates full of casserole. John hums approvingly and Mrs. Hudson waves him over.]

Mrs. Hudson [smiling, satisfied]: There now. Come, come, boys. Sit.

[The frame jostles as John happily obeys. The camera surveys the spread once more before ending up on Sherlock, who is still standing to one side but looking curiously at the table. It's a surprise he's not left yet, but he has one hand curled over his middle, and was that sound his stomach or John's?]

Mrs. Hudson [offscreen, impatiently]: Oh for goodness sake! Sherlock Holmes, sit down and eat your dinner!

Sherlock [with fake reluctance]: Oh, if you insist.

[He sits. John settles the camera. All breathe a collective sigh in anticipation of Mrs. Hudson's fine cooking. Screen goes black.]


	13. Got ya!

**The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

* * *

13th February

[Lestrade's office. In the frame we can see Lestrade and John in profile, grinning, speaking over the expanse of Lestrade's desk. They are leaning toward each other conspiratorially. They murmur something to each other – inaudible to the viewer – and then both turn toward the camera.]

John: We're going to play a trick on Sherlock.

[Lestrade puts a finger to his lips: shh, don't tell anyone. Then he glances at John.]

Lestrade: So, how are we going to do it? I mean, there's the logistics to figure out.

John: Well, I think -

[A door opens and shuts.]

John [whisper]: Oi, turn it off!

[There is a mad scramble for the camera, and then the frame goes back. End scene.]

* * *

[Open on 221b. The entirety of the sitting room is in view, and the frame shakes for a minute, John's left eye visible in the upper left corner of the frame as he struggles to set the camera just so. He is trying to balance it between Sherlock's music stand and the window in order to get a good vantage point. After a bit of a struggle, it finally settles, and John backs up a bit so that his whole face is in the frame. Over his shoulder we can see Sherlock sprawled on the couch, sound asleep. John whispers to avoid waking him.]

John: Okay. Everything's in hand.

[John smiles devilishly, and holds up Sherlock's revolver.]

John: Not loaded. Just to be clear, this is all very controlled, please don't try it at home.

[Then he's off! John leaves the camera where it is and creeps silently toward Sherlock. Slowly, painstakingly, John slips the revolver beneath Sherlock's left hand as it rests atop his chest. John's face is a grimace of concentration, teeth clenched together, as he does this. At once, Sherlock sighs and stirs in his sleep, and John draws back, frozen, waiting, hands poised above his flatmate. He holds his breath as he stands there for several painful moments. Soon, Sherlock settles and does not move again. The revolver is now cradled against his chest, and John takes several careful steps backward. He goes to the door, pokes his head out, and waves to someone in the stairwell. Then he shuts the door noiselessly and kneels down on the floor of the sitting room, spreading something red and sticky on the floor. He then lies down on top of it, facedown, motionless. Several moments pass in absolute stillness. Then there is a brisk, loud knock on the door. Sherlock startles awake at precisely the moment that Lestrade lets himself into the flat.]

Lestrade: Sherlock, why weren't you answering your phone, you – _bloody fucking hell_!

[Groggy and slow from sleep, Sherlock looks down to see what Lestrade is gaping at. It is John, of course, in a pool of red corn syrup. Sherlock leaps to his feet, and notices the weight of the gun in his hand. He stares at it, confused, and turns a horrified face to the DI.]

Lestrade [mock horror]: Sherlock, what have you done?

[Lestrade kneels beside John's body, extending one hand toward his throat as if to check for a pulse.]

Sherlock: I… I…

[Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson appears at the door, announcing her presence with a whimper. Her hand covers her mouth and her face is very white. Lestrade looks over his shoulder at her and gets to his feet, taking a breath to reassure her it's all a prank, but she cuts him off.]

Mrs. Hudson [tearfully]: Oh, no. Sherlock! Not again… And I liked him, too!

[There is a long, pregnant pause. Then, all of a sudden, John sits up and Lestrade straightens, and they are both looking at Mrs. Hudson with a mix of surprise, confusion, and fear.]

Lestrade and John [in unison]: _What?!_

[Sherlock appears to be holding his breath.]

Sherlock: …Again?

[Lestrade and John both look at Sherlock with wide eyes. Slowly, John climbs to his feet. Lestrade crosses to Sherlock and hauls him offscreen by the arm. John follows. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Mrs. Hudson breaks into a coy smile as they disappear, and she begins tidying up, looking rather pleased with herself. As she goes to retrieve the cleaning things from the kitchen, we hear her say to herself…]

Mrs. Hudson: That'll teach them to pour false blood all over my carpet!

* * *

**Comments**

S Holmes  
How did she know?  
02:01AM Feb 15

Anita Hudson  
No gunshot, dear. And corn syrup doesn't really look like blood, does it? Hmmm...  
07:22AM Feb 15

John Watson  
Hmm!  
07:30AM Feb 15

S Holmes  
Hmm?  
07:31AM Feb 15

John Watson  
I'm surprised it worked is all.  
07:49AM Feb 15

S Holmes  
I hadn't had a chance to wake up properly.  
07:50AM Feb 15

John Watson  
Oh of course, of course.  
08:09AM Feb 15

Anita Hudson  
Got ya!  
09:00AM Feb 15


End file.
